4 Christoph
4
Christoph
May, 1942 – Paris
‘ Entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte . Will you take a photo of me?’ A German soldier approached Christoph. ‘I want to send it to my mother.’
Christoph nodded gruffly and put down his briefcase. He’d seen his colleagues doing the same thing when he’d arrived here six months ago but the notion of taking holiday snaps while in Paris was abhorrent to him.
The soldier posed with his finger pointing at the Eiffel Tower. The shutter opened and closed, immortalizing the moment.
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ the soldier said. ‘Paris is our pleasure ground now.’ He took a guidebook out of his pocket and opened the pull-out map. ‘Do you know the best place to get a woman?’
‘ Nein ,’ Christoph said, nauseated by the soldier’s words. He wished Paris wasn’t their pleasure ground but still the city he’d dreamed of visiting, a place to explore and learn from, not a place of destruction and fear. He handed the camera back. ‘You’re asking the wrong man.’
He walked off, startling a flock of pigeons. The soldier’s ignorance reminded him of his fiancée.
‘You won’t forget me, will you, Liebling ?’ she’d said. ‘All that fun you’re going to have in Paris. How I wish I could visit too.’
Hilde was the prettiest girl in the village and he’d been flattered by her attentions. The night before he was forced to join the army, Hilde and Christoph had stolen out into the barn. Cows snuffled in the stalls, and Hilde, determined not to lose him, had pulled him down into the hay. He’d made love to her willingly, grateful for a moment’s respite from what was to come.
Only afterwards, in the awkward silence, had he thought what it signified. It seemed only right to propose to her, to ask the question she’d been longing to hear. When she said yes, a cold, flat feeling settled in Christoph’s heart. Marching to Paris had been a way to escape. But the feeling had followed him here. He’d never pictured his life like this. Trapped.
Christoph crossed the road and turned left, heading towards the H?tel Le Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. The briefcase was heavy. Christoph had to deliver some papers to Kommandant von Gross-Paris Schaumberg by noon.
Christoph nodded at the guards outside Le Meurice. He’d never been here before. He was stationed at the Majestic. He hadn’t wanted to serve, but when the recruiting officer came to the farm, threatening to take his sister, Lotte, away because of her mental disabilities if he didn’t, he had had no choice. Hilde’s father had connections in the Nazi Party, and, at her insistence, had secured Christoph a role as a junior administrator in the Department of Agriculture and Food Supply. Despite his reluctance at being forced into the war, he was at least grateful for this small mercy.
Apparently, the Kommandant had asked for him especially. Christoph hurried up the steps, hoping to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
The atrium had swirling marble floors and sparkling chandeliers. The brightness made him blink. It was beautiful, but also rather inhuman. The scale dwarfed the young soldier on reception. Christoph showed his identity papers and was directed up to the Kommandant’s personal apartments.
‘Ah, Herr Leutnant Baumann,’ the Kommandant said. He stood behind a vast mahogany desk. ‘Heil Hitler.’
‘Heil Hitler,’ Christoph replied, raising his right hand and clicking his heels together.
The Kommandant was a handsome man with dark brown hair swept over to one side and a thick moustache that gleamed above his upper lip.
‘Thank you for bringing these over.’ He took the papers from Christoph.
‘You’re welcome, Herr Kommandant.’ He waited to be dismissed, but the Kommandant pointed to the chair.
‘Christoph, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Do sit down. It’s not just the papers I want, it’s your other skills too.’
This didn’t bode well. From the room next door came the crash of piano chords and a voice wailing. The Kommandant raised his eyebrows.
‘My son, Otto,’ he said. ‘My wife does her best, but she struggles to teach him.’
Christoph stiffened. Where was this leading?
‘Perhaps he’s homesick,’ he said.
‘Perhaps, but it’s important for him to see our victory over Paris. That’s why I’ve brought my family here. I want them to witness the subjugation of the French for themselves, and experience my proudest hour as I enjoy the conqueror’s spoils. Hitler himself approved it.’
Christoph flinched inwardly. To him, the very essence of Paris was freedom.
‘I insist on Otto continuing lessons while he’s here, including the piano, but the poor child needs better instruction. Hence …’ The Kommandant waved his hand towards Christoph. ‘I want you to teach the boy. I understand from your superior that you’re a talented pianist and have been entertaining the troops.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Herr Kommandant,’ Christoph said, thinking of the occasional sing-song in the boarding house. ‘I was accepted into the Bonn Conservatory, but then I was conscripted.’
He hadn’t wanted to sign up. He hadn’t wanted this war. A career as a concert pianist was his dream. Christoph’s parents were encouraging. His father, a prosperous landowner and farmer, was proud of his son, who took French lessons with a tutor and could play Beethoven by the time he was eleven.
After his father died, Christoph went to agricultural college, dutifully learning enough to be able to manage the farm and looking after his mother and sister. Once the farm was secure, however, and they’d hired a good manager on the recommendation of Hilde’s father, Christoph’s mother suggested that he should finally audition for a place in the Bonn Music Conservatory. But not long after that, conscription had been introduced, and Christoph had been forced to sign up.
‘Far better to serve the Führer, I’d say.’ The Kommandant saluted the portrait of Hitler again.
‘Indeed,’ Christoph murmured. He followed suit, clicking his heels and raising his hand, but without the vigour of the Kommandant’s flamboyant salute.
The Hitler Youth had seemed like fun back when he was younger. He’d enjoyed camping, hiking and map reading. When he got older, though, and the military training started, he’d hated it. Christoph’s father had been a member of the Zentrum Party until it was abolished in 1933, and had been opposed to Nazi ideology right up to his death. Hilde’s father talked of Hitler restoring German pride, but the reality of learning how to shoot a gun and, later, being in Paris, made Christoph question this.
Discordant notes reverberated through the walls. The Kommandant winced.
‘Well, word has got out about your talents. I don’t want a Frenchman teaching my son the piano. I want him to learn the greats, like Beethoven and Bach, from one of our own. So I’d like you to have a go at teaching Otto while he’s here.’
There was nothing Christoph could do but agree.
‘Place your thumb on E,’ Christoph said. ‘Here, I’ve got a pencil. I’ll mark the score with the fingering.’
Otto frowned and tried to stretch his fingers. His small hands couldn’t quite reach.
‘Nearly,’ Christoph encouraged. The boy was doing his best. ‘Try adding the D major chord with the left hand.’
Christoph thought of his little sister, Lotte, who had preferred to listen rather than play. A childhood illness had left part of her brain damaged. She hadn’t developed like other girls in the village. Christoph often had to play Beethoven to coax her out from her hiding place under the table. He wondered what she was doing now. Weaving those straw dolls she loved, perhaps, or running barefoot in the fields with the calves. Hopefully, she didn’t realize the danger she was in. A sixteen-year-old girl with mental disabilities was deemed ‘useless’ by the Nazi regime. Hilde’s father had sought assurances from local officials that she’d be overlooked in the round-ups, provided Christoph did his duty in Paris. But every day he was terrified something would happen to her.
‘How are you getting on?’ The Kommandant stood at the doorway with his wife.
Frau Schaumberg had a fragile prettiness which might have blossomed into beauty, but for the worried look around her eyes. Rumour had it the Kommandant was unfaithful to her.
‘Listen to this.’ Otto played the first few bars.
‘Well done,’ Frau Schaumberg said. ‘You’re lucky Leutnant Baumann was here to show you.’
‘Can he come again?’ Otto said.
Christoph tensed. He’d hoped to stay invisible, to get through the war unnoticed and return to his mother and Lotte, his dignity and soul intact. He didn’t believe in the Nazi cause, and certainly didn’t want to lose his life on account of it. Working for the Kommandant would bring him closer to the heart of Nazi command. It was the very last place he wanted to be.
‘Indeed, he can,’ the Kommandant replied. ‘Herr Leutnant, I’ve arranged for you to be billeted here. Those papers you brought need someone with an eye for detail. You speak fluent French, I understand?’
‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’
‘Then you’re just the man, and you’ll be on hand to teach Otto as well.’
Christoph tried desperately to think of an excuse to decline. But this wasn’t an offer. It was a command.
‘ Danke , Herr Kommandant,’ he said.
Christoph walked back to his lodgings through the Tuileries Gardens. The scent of blossom reminded him of the orchard at home.
For the first few weeks of being here, he’d strolled around Paris with his colleagues, visiting the Moulin de la Galette, the Trocadéro, the Sacré-C?ur, the Champs élysées. Places he’d only heard about from his French tutor. He’d been told the army was doing something worthy, that the Reich would restore Paris’s glory days.
But then he’d noticed the look in people’s eyes. Defiance. Fear. Hatred. His comrades ignored it. But Christoph couldn’t. Every footstep was a trespass. One morning, on the way to work, he’d witnessed a horrific sight: a mother and her baby, dead in a doorway. They must have been living rough, deprived of food. Soldiers were ushering people away, but he’d caught sight of the lifeless child clutched in the woman’s bony arms. He’d walked on, embarrassed by the hostile stares of the Parisians. The shame had lodged deep within his heart. What the hell were they doing here? The whole enterprise was madness. Yet Christoph knew he had no choice but to remain in Paris and that desertion would put his mother and sister at risk of reprisals.
Christoph sighed, passing through the iron gate and on to the street. Perhaps this move to Le Meurice made no difference. Wherever he stayed in Paris, he didn’t belong.